One of our neighbors likes to slam their front door hella loud.
So loud, it wakes me out of a sound sleep.
So loud, once it interrupted a sweet, sweet sensual moment of sensualness between me and Jeff. I was angry.
So loud, I think it’s making Hermione (our cat) puke her face off.
Yeah. It’s that loud.
My mission is to find out who is doing the door slamming, so I think I am going to start keeping a log of times during the day the door gets slammed. Not in a psychotic way, but in a cute, endearing Harriet The Spy kind of way. To be honest, I really did spy on my neighbors when I was little, composition book in hand. I begged my mother for a yellow raincoat. My grandma used to make up mysteries about the neighbors so I would have something to do.
I am a child of the country. All my school friends lived too far away for me to play with. My grandma had to throw me a bone.
I am so determined to find out who the Door Slammer is that I bolted out of my seat and ran outside to our deck when I heard – and felt – the demonic beast slam their door tonight during The Muppets. That should give you an idea of how serious this is. I paused Kermit. I did find out one piece of information that helps narrow this whole thing down a bit: their apartment is on the other side of our apartment. I know, excitement and intrigue abounds.
Seriously. I’m going to get them.
On a lighter note, today Jeff and I played disc golf here and I sucked at it. But apparently that’s normal.
As if I wasn’t nerdy enough. First Magic and now this.
Disc golf, first of all, is incredibly hard to type. Here are some things that I have typed repeatedly instead of “disc golf”:
- dico golf
- doco gold
- disco golf
- disco gold (my personal favorite)
- disco fold (I don’t know)
It’s a great work-out, and people are incredibly supportive at the disc golf course (even harder to type). If you’ve never played disc golf, don’t say to someone who does play it, “It’s just like frisbee, right?” because they will spit on you. They won’t really, because like I said, they are all supportive and really nice, but they will think really, really hard about spitting on you.
There are all kinds of discs, just like the different clubs in “real” golf. The courses, from what I’ve seen, are totally gorgeous and just about anyone who is anyone in disc golf smokes a shit-ton of pot.
Really serious players don’t do this. I don’t do this. Pot makes me weird. I wish I was one of those people that could “get lit” but I can’t. I’m prone to anxiety, and all four times I have tried marijuana have been awful, terrible ideas. I get sweaty and I eat a bunch of food really quickly, and then I quiver and cry. It’s not a good thing.
Basically, anyone who has been on a disc golf course has met this guy:
His name is usually Randy or Jason, but people call him Jay. Sometimes he’s a Jesse or a Jake.
He is really skinny and white.
He has a girlfriend named Amber or Nikki/Nickie/Nicky.
He just got fired from his job.
And, I quote, “My boss just don’t fuckin’ get me, man.”
He smokes blunts, because apparently it’s 1995 and Ice Cube is going to make a cameo at Shady Oaks. Randy just wants to impress him.
The best time to meet Randy is somewhere between 2 and 3 Pm, which is basically the Witching Hour for potheads at the disco gold course.
By the way, I really don’t mind pot. I think it’s just dandy. However, I, personally, prefer not to partake. That was so late ’90s movie of you, Amanda. I know. Somewhere Jared Leto is like, “Yeah.”
Speaking of Jared Leto! Here is a book that has nothing to do with him:
The Know-It-All: One Man’s Humble Quest to Become the Smartest Person in the World is the recommendation for today, because I am feeling like a smarty-pants. So, there.